


Annals of the Cenobium

by LizzieAddamsTookAnAxe



Category: Hellraiser & Related Fandoms, Hellraiser (Comics), Hellraiser (Movies)
Genre: Cenobite Customs, Demons, Eventual Smut, F/F, Gen, Hell, Horror, Other, Torture, Violence, Worldbuilding, hellish theology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2018-10-06 16:05:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10338612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieAddamsTookAnAxe/pseuds/LizzieAddamsTookAnAxe
Summary: Various smatterings of Hellraiser fiction, from worldbuilding to hardcore smut, and anything inbetween.





	1. The Valley of the Flensing Wind

There is a place in Hell where the wind blows cold and dry, strong enough to strip the moisture from a mortal’s lungs within the space of a breath. It is a desolate valley, a carpet of flint razors ringed by barren peaks beneath a leaden sky, a place of flensing winds that scream through strange and twisted rock formation like the tortured howl of the damned.

It was to this place that the procession came. 

A full half-score of the Cenobitic Order, their leather cassocks tossed gaily about by the eternal flaying gale, the blades at their waists chiming, the banners held aloft by the standard-bearers flapping as the somehow still-living manskins wailed their accompaniment to the hell-winds. Their voices were raised in holy song, chanting praises to the Black Prism, Leviathan, lord of flesh and desire; reciting the six million, six thousand six hundred and sixty six names of torment recorded by the Burning Abbot some three hundred cycles ago.

Behind them, shackled and cowed, stretched a line of chained mortals, meat for the torture mills of the Labyrinth. The wailings and lamentations of the damned added their own unique note to the song of the flensing winds, which was promptly recorded by two Cenobites in the rear, jotted upon parchments made of their own flayed flesh, recording the music of the damned for posterity in the elegant notation of Hell.

In the center of the valley, amidst the razor stone, there are pillars carved of black rock, stained by blood, standing tall amidst piles of reeking offal. Shackles hang from chains whose ends are embedded in the stone, shackles crusted with rust and dried gore. It is there that the procession of Cenobites escort their damned prisoners, leading them weeping and wailing to the place of their torment.

Their wrists are shackled high above their heads, the chains raising themselves agonizingly, shoulders wrenching free of sockets with a sickening tearing sound, a low counterpoint to the howling shrieks of agony. These sounds, too, were recorded for posterity, their contribution to the song noted. Nothing is ever forgotten in Hell, no agony ever wasted. 

The leader of the procession stood before the agonized victims, facing those priests of her Order who had accompanied her there, hands raised in benediction. 

“Brethren,” she said, her voice a ghastly whisper that, somehow, carried clearly over the wind and wails, “sistren. My kin. Listen.” The howling wind continued. “The orchestra of the flensing winds is fine this day, is it not? The song will rise up into the ears of Leviathan. Far from the great cities of Hell we may be, but the music we make on this day will carry over the winds unto the very gates of Pandemonium. It will echo through the alleyways of Dis, resound through the whorepits of Freckers Trench, it’s whispers will reach even the Empty Throne itself. The name of Leviathan will be sung in the great halls, it will be chanted in the gutters, it will be screamed from the greatest depths! Ready your blades! Let the flensing commence!”

And the screams of the damned rose once more to join the howling gale.

The priestess closed her eyes, and listened to the song of the Labyrinth.


	2. Vanilla and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirsty had always desired the Hell Priest. But it was not He who visited her in the night and tasted her flesh...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: hardcore femslash, heavy piercings, and some body horror.

She is not afraid.

She should be, of course. She has been, for years. Afraid They would return.

Them. The Cenobites.

But now that They had, she could feel nothing. No fear, no sorrow, no anticipation. Exquisitely empty.

She is not hung from the ceiling with hooks, not like Uncle Frank, not like so many others. Not like her nightmares. She is chained, face-down, to a table, the granite rough and cold on the sensitive skin of her breasts, chafing her nipples with every twitch. 

She knows it will be the least of her suffering tonight.

She can't seen anything in front of her, with her neck chained down and her head protruding over the edge of the table, just an empty room if she rolls her eyes as far up as she can. She can hear Them, hear Them walking, arranging metal tools on a nearby table, hear the brush of their leather robes against the stone floor and the clink of knife on knife. The denial of sight would be a great torment, if she could feel anything at all. Somewhere to the left of her, outside of her field of vision, a whetstone rasps along a blade’s edge. The sound sends a chill down her spine.

Bizarrely, impossibly, her nipples stiffen. 

No.

She doesn't desire Him, does she? Does she?

The imperious stare. The pierced skull. The mutilated flesh. The slender, leather-clad fingers. Surely they do not fill her with lust, surely the tormented form of the Favored Son holds no appeal? Surely the agonies of the Labyrinth do not entice her?

A gathering dampness between her thighs betrays her.

The scent of Them fills her nostrils. They smell of old blood, and vanilla, and sex. 

A hand touches her, astonishingly gentle, tracing a path down her spine, lifting just before it would caress her exposed buttocks. She can't help but arch her back at the touch, leaning into the warm touch as best she can. A quiet sigh of pleasure escapes her lips.

She had expected His hands to be ice-cold, but instead they are warm.

A knife follows the hand’s path, and it is cold, and bitterly so. It does not penetrate deeply at all, merely scratching the surface, a cautious first stroke of the artist’s pen, a dash of red on a pale canvas. This, too, gives pleasure.

She doesn't know why she speaks up. What good could it do? The Cenobites are creatures of flesh and desire, not words.

But she speaks nonetheless.

“You can't be here. I didn't call you. I didn't summon you.”

“ ‘Didn't summon me’? And the last time it was ‘didn't open the box,’ and before that, ‘didn't know what the box was.’ And yet, here we are, once again, Kirsty. Called here, not by hands, but by desire. And yours is a clarion call.”

It was not His voice.

She twisted, straining her head against the thick leather strap that bound her neck to the tabletop, striving to see Her, for it was Her voice that had answered her desperate protest, Her hand that had felt so warm and gentle.

Kirsty can picture Her in her mind. The bald head, the cold expression, the trachea held open by metal struts in an obscenely vaginal manner providing the only splash of color in an otherwise desaturated drowned-corpse face.

Kirsty blushes, remembering Her sliding Her fingers into the raw gash, remembers the flash of discomforting almost-arousal she had felt at the time, and tries not to imagine those fingers sliding deep between her legs.

She fails, and whimpers at the failure.

“Oh, Kirsty,” She says, dark amusement lacing Her voice. “So eager to play. So hesitant to admit it. Why so shy?”

The hand resumed its stroking of her back, up and down, barely more than a promise of sensations to come.

“What do you want with me?” 

It's a foolish question, she knows it as soon as the words escape her trembling lips, and She wastes no time responding. “What we have always wanted, Kirsty. I want to know your flesh. And I will. And I will have all of eternity to make you enjoy it.”

____________________________________________________________________

It's not sex that they have, not really. 

You can no more have sex with one of Them than you can have sex with a knife blade. Human definitions of lovemaking are insufficient to describe the pleasures of the Theologians of the Order of the Gash.

Nevertheless, it was distinctly sexual.

Kirsty was not, by any stretch of the imagination, possessed of vanilla (and what an ironic term that was, with the scent of vanilla flowers thick in her nostrils) sexual habits. She had been, once, when she was an innocent girl still dreaming about handsome men with kind eyes and gentle smiles. She'd long ago left such dreams behind, along with her tattered and bleeding innocence.

She is certain that any last vestiges of innocence are being swftly drained away by the fingers working with exquisite precision between her legs, stroking and caressing. 

They are, of course, not gentle, not at all. They pinch and twist as much as they rub and caress, they thrust brutally into her depths as much as they tease her sensitive spots, and Kirsty hovers on the knife-edge between pleasure and pain before falling over the edge into a shuddering, agonizing orgasm that leaves her bruised, satisfied, and yet hungry for more. The fingers thrust deep once more, penetrating her depths seemingly farther than fingers could reach, and then withdraw.

She doesn’t want to beg. Who knows what She will do in reply? The Cenobites have… extreme ideas of what constitutes pleasure. Inhuman ideas. The pleasure She would reward Kirsty with would no doubt resemble unimaginable torment. Kirsty has been lucky thus far. It would be madness to beg for more.

Nevertheless, she does.

“...please.” 

Her voice is quiet. Broken, almost. A pleading whisper.

It receives an indrawn breath as a reply. The Cenobite sounds almost… surprised, perhaps? Shocked, even. Her reply, however, is as confident and commanding as ever.

“And now we see what lays beneath the ingenue’s coy veil. So swift to crumble, to surrender.” Her hand strokes Kirsty’s neck gently, robbing the comment of any sting. “Good girl. But there’s a price that must be paid.”

“What price?” Oh God. Did she have no sense? The Cenobite would tear her flesh apart. But the smell, like vanilla blossoms and sex, was thick in her nostrils, and her aching cunt was calling the shots. “Please, anything.”

Kirsty hears Her walking, coming to stand in front of her. The legs in front of her are bare, Her leather cassock left behind. A hand on her chin forces her gaze higher, and Her swollen sex fills Kirsty’s gaze.

Steel rings dangle from the labia five to a side, a larger one thrust directly through Her engorged clitoris, which gave a slow and languid twitch as Kirsty’s hot breath fell upon it. She is as hairless below as she is above, and her raw inner flesh is corpse-pale, even as it appears to be swollen with arousal. Her hand grasps Kirsty’s hair, pulling her in. “Lick.”

God.

Yes. Please, yes.

She sticks her tongue out, desperately striving to taste, but She pulls away, wet cunt teasingly out of reach, clitoris gleaming temptingly. 

“Eager to play. No. You’ve teased us for so long, Kirsty. My turn. Beg.”

Beg? She’d crawl if she wasn't chained down. “Please.”

“No.” God, She was beautiful when She was cruel. This had to be tormenting Her, too. The Cenobite is visibly wet, Her clitoris throbbing and pulsing in time with her heartbeat, bizarre and yet so arousing. Kirsty feels hot, feverish, maddened by the wet heat between her legs, the aching empty warmth…

“Please, please,” she begs, almost shrieking. She grinds her hips against the stone beneath her, the cold granite agonizing relief for her heated cunt. God, if her hands were free they would be buried between her legs, and she would climax at the first touch of her fingers against sensitive flesh. She would do anything for it.

And She would make her do everything.

Kirsty tells Her as much. “Anything. Anything!”

“Anything?” The Cenobite’s fingers stroked Kirsty’s hair idly. “Pleasure, pain?”

“Anything.”

“Good girl.”

The hand stroking her hair grasps it firmly, and draws Kirsty’s head down. The Cenobite’s hips push forward, and Kirsty is smothered by her glistening labia.

Her vulva is corpse-cold, like a dead thing, but Her swollen clitoris jumps and twitches when she pulls her head back and licks it. Kirsty’s mouth is roughly ground against the Cenobite’s groin, as She rubs her crotch back and forth across Kirsty’s mouth in a gesture of blatant, erotic domination.

Her fluids taste almost like copper, and with a shock Kirsty realizes the taste is that of old blood.

It tastes good.

Desperately, she laps at the proffered cunt, tongue lashing everything from scarred perineum to pierced clitoris, the dangling labial piercings chiming brightly against each other as she does. She suckles on the Cenobite’s clitoris with a ferocity the surprises her, almost violent, and then bites down. A human woman would scream in agony, but She only lets out a contented sigh and says, “Good girl.”

Kirsty isn’t sure exactly what happens next; the whole thing has been hazy, like a dream. One moment, she is chained face-down to a stone slab buried face-first in the throatless Cenobite’s crotch, the next moment she is standing, Her hands holding Kirsty close as she licks the gaping vaginal throat wound just as she had been licking the sopping cunt.

The Cenobite is not so calm as before, moaning throatily as Kirsty devours her. She releases Kirsty’s head with one hand, clasping the curve of her backside tightly before snaking a single finger, then two, deep into Kirsty’s ass. She wraps Her thighs around Kirsty’s leg, grinding Her weeping gash against her thigh, smearing Her cold fluids into Kirsty’s flesh.

Kirsty is on fire, a burning contrast to the icy cold she quenches her throbbing gash against. Her empty cunt throbs and clenches itself around nothing at all, as her ass spasms against the Cenobite’s rough fingers, screaming her orgasm into the Cenobite’s gaping orifice.

“Please,” she moans. “Please.”

“Please what, Kirsty?” The damnable Cenobites has the gall to sound amused, as if She hadn’t been moaning Herself a few moments ago.

“My cunt, fuck my-” the words die in Kirsty’s throat as Her other hand thrust deep inside, a skilled thumb working her aching clit to a throbbing, trembling climax. 

“Scream for me,” She suggests, tone disinterested, fingers working roughly on bruised and raw flesh, stabbing, penetrating, violating. 

Kirsty screams.

And screams.

And screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sort of trickles off, and I'm sorry for it, but I am terrible at smut and my interest died. Any femmeslash authors experienced in smut want to coauthor it to its full potential, hmu.


	3. Miscellaneous Worldbuilding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section One: On Date and Time

1: A Small Essay Upon the Calendar Which is Used In Hell- It's Histories and Purposes.

 

The current system of dating used within the bowels of Hell counts time in Years From the Temptation of Eve, or Year -X- YFT. Previously, years were counted Post Fall, or PF, until a public debate regarding the exact number of years since the Fall from Heaven between the then-Pontifex Infernus of the Cenobitic Order of the Theologians of the Gash (Slice by name) and Grand Infernal Abbot Excrucitus the 32nd of the Malignant Order of the Wealthy Fellows of Mammon was interrupted in its seventh year by the Lord of Hell himself, Dread Leviathan (long may He reign, long may he shit light on the heads of the damned!), who promptly caused both debaters along with 664 of the assembled crowd to deliquesce into astoundingly odiferous black ooze as punishment for failing to file an official request for the proper permits (‘Permit, Public Assembly, 7+ Years,’ to be precise.) The Pontifex was succeeded by his second, Sister Razor, who instituted both a brutally effective crusade against the Wealthy Fellows (leading to their utter annihilation, down to the last Junior Coin Shaver and Apprentice Pennypincher) and the new dating system.

Somewhat less contentious is the system of months, consisting of twelve months, each containing precisely thirty days for a 360-day year. Needless to say, the complexities of converting between the infernal calendar and the mortal 365 day calendar cause some confusion with both historical records and newly arrived damnedsouls, a confusion only heightened by the less than temporally consistent nature of Hell.

The months are Descent, Weeping, Conquest, Treachery, Slaughter, Mourning, Flensing, Flaying, Agonies, Harvest, Preparation, and Arising. The days of the week are the Day of Pride, the Day of Envy, the Day of Wrath, the Day of Sloth, the Day of Avarice, the Day of Gluttony, and the Day of Lust.

Each month also contains two Days That Are Not, one on the first day of the month and one on the last, upon which it is widely agreed it is unwise to do much of anything at all.

Scattered attempts to use to mortal system of dating by way of the birth of the Adversary’s spawn used in the Western hemisphere of the mundane realm have, naturally, been met with extreme resistance and brutal torture-penance.

 


End file.
